


The Sea is Hungry

by thechandrian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Birds, Crossdressing, Flirting, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Ugly!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechandrian/pseuds/thechandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire meet as children. Enjolras is sheltered & painfully rich, with a desire to explore Paris, and Grantaire is homeless, living on the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No harm intended, no profit made. I do not own Les Miserables.
> 
> Creative liberties were taken with characters' back stories.

Enjolras was at his twelfth birthday party when he decided he wanted to explore Paris.

His family’s spacious, lush green courtyard was filled with many of Paris’s aristocrats and a few of the neighborhood children whom his parents deemed decent enough to associate with him. Among the crowd gathered for the party were their family’s maid, Brigitte, and Enjolras’s babysitter, Hadley. Enjolras considered Hadley and Brigitte to be his best friends, mostly because they had practically raised him, and because they really were his only friends.

Enjolras was sitting in the garden, scowling at the partygoers. Even though it was his birthday, he was being ignored by basically everyone – including his parents, who were far too concerned with making a good impression on their fellow socialites, rather than paying attention to their son.

Enjolras was picking the petals off of a flower and putting them in his hair when Hadley approached, carrying a wrapped gift in his hand.

“Happy birthday, Enjolras,” he said, kneeling down in the garden.

Enjolras looked at the gift, blinking. Without moving to take it, he asked, “can we go to Paris?”

“We’re in Paris,” Hadley responded, used to Enjolras’s antics, since he’d been watching over him for years.

“I mean the real Paris. Jacques says there are buildings that reach to the sky, and giant fountains, and huge gardens—”

Hadley held up a hand to pause Enjolras before he became over-excited.

“Jacques is an idiot,” he said, simply. Jacques was Enjolras’s neighbor, obscenely rich, and prone to telling Enjolras ridiculous stories that the gullible child always believed.

“He says that there are people who live on the streets,” Enjolras said, with a curious tone. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Hadley admitted, and looking to change the subject said, “why don’t you open your present?”

“I hope it’s a new sundress,” Enjolras said, taking the gift from Hadley and tearing off the paper.

It was, of course, not a new sundress. Even though Hadley sometimes entertained Enjolras’s love for cross-dressing, he knew he’d probably be fired if he began buying Enjolras dresses.

Instead, Enjolras held the next best thing: a silk scarf, bright red with lace trim.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras said, with wide eyes. He promptly wrapped it around his neck, flipping his long, curly blonde hair out from underneath it. “And no satin, you remembered.”

Hadley laughed. For whatever reason, Enjolras was prone to throwing tantrums whenever his parents purchased him anything made out of satin.

“Brigitte made me a coat for my birthday,” Enjolras said, going back to picking flowers from the garden. “It’s green. I don’t really like green, but I told her I liked it because I didn’t want her to be upset.”

“That was very nice of you,” Hadley said.

“It’s warm enough,” Enjolras went on, shrugging. “If Jacques can go into Paris, why can’t I?”

“Jacques has only seen Paris through his carriage window,” Hadley responded, his disdain for Jacques becoming increasingly evident.

Before Enjolras could argue further, Brigitte approached, looking less than thrilled about the proceedings of the party.

“Enjolras, we’re about to cut your cake,” she said, brushing from her face the brown hair that had fallen loose.

“Look at the scarf Hadley got me,” Enjolras said, standing up from the garden, appropriately muddy, and twirling around. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“Very pretty,” she said, smiling. Even though Enjolras could often be a spoiled brat, she was very protective over him and would do anything to reassure him that he was the most beautiful person in the world, especially when his parents would so often put him down, when they bothered to pay attention to him at all.

“Don’t you want cake?” she asked.

“I want to see Paris,” Enjolras said, looking up at Brigitte with big blue eyes, knowing full well that look could usually get him anything he wanted.

“You’ve seen Paris,” Brigitte responded, raising an eyebrow in confusion at Hadley, who simply shook his head. Enjolras was an enigma.

“Not the _real_ Paris,” Enjolras explained, looking exasperated. “I’ll just ask Jacques to take me the next time he goes.”

“You’re not hanging out with Jacques,” Brigitte and Hadley said in unison, causing Enjolras to jump.

“Forget the city,” Brigitte said, pulling herself together. “It’s dangerous. Just eat your cake.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and dusted himself off from the dirt he’d collected in the garden, grabbing both Hadley and Brigitte’s hands before making his way to the crowd that had gathered at the long banquet table set up to host the posh partygoers.

“Ah, Enjolras has finally decided to join us,” Enjolras’s mother commented, giving Brigitte an impatient look.

“Take the flowers out of your hair, son,” his father commented, sighing heavily.

Enjolras attempted to look defiant, but began blushing furiously as all the attention was brought to him. He frantically brushed the flower petals from his hair, unable to lift his eyes.

“Should we sing?” Hadley suggested, hoping to ease the awkwardness and alleviate some of Enjolras’s embarrassment.

As the crowd began a half-assed attempt at singing to Enjolras, who was still bright red and staring at the fallen flower petals around his feet, Brigitte reached over and put an arm around him, pulling him close. Enjolras looked up at her and smiled, just as they were finishing. Blowing out the candles that had been placed in his cake, he couldn’t help but feel important as everyone around him clapped.

The cake was strawberry, Enjolras’s favorite, and he took his slice into a secluded corner where he could watch the people around him talk and put on airs. It wasn’t long before he was approached by his neighbor, Jacques, who carried a slice of cake in his hand and looked smug for whatever reason.

“Jacques,” Enjolras greeted, pink icing on his nose.

“Enjolras,” Jacques said, nose in the air. “I’m going into Paris again tonight. I’m hanging out with some of my friends that live downtown. We’re probably going to a party. It’s going to be cool.”

Jacques was only two years older than Enjolras but always liked to brag about his older friends who were so interesting and liked to party and get into trouble.

“Take me,” Enjolras pleaded.

“I don’t know,” Jacques said, looking skeptical. “It’s a tough crowd. Everyone is going to think you’re a girl.”

“Why?” Enjolras asked, looking up at Jacques with blue eyes, wild curls, and icing on his nose.

“Because you look like one,” Jacques explained. “Anyway, I’ll introduce you if you want, but we need to think of a plan.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, in a hushed voice.

Jacques sat down beside him and spoke in a hurried, whispered tone as though they were plotting treason and not being ignored by the entire party either way.

“I need you to escape from your house and meet me at the corner of Rue Cujas and Rue Saint-Jacques. We’ll meet in two hours. Can you do that?”

“Rue Cujas and Rue Saint-Jacques,” Enjolras repeated. “Like your name. I can do that.”

“Good,” Jacques said, although he still looked unsure whether or not Enjolras was capable of doing anything even remotely bad ass. “I’ll see you then.”

Jacques wandered off, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts.

He was instantly anxious about sneaking out. The most daring thing he’d ever done was continue to have secret ballet lessons after his father threatened to disown him if he continued. He at least had Hadley on his side for that one, but he knew he couldn’t tell anyone about his plan to sneak out. Hadley and Brigitte both seemed to think going into Paris was a bad idea. But Enjolras knew he wouldn’t rest until he experienced the full extent of the city he lived in.

“You look happy.” Enjolras looked up from his thoughts to see Hadley standing over him, an amused expression on his face.

“It’s a nice party,” Enjolras said, stuttering. “Nice cake.”

“I’m heading out now,” Hadley said, “I’ll see you tomorrow for your lessons.”

Enjolras’s parents had decided from the beginning that Enjolras was apparently too good for public school and had him home-schooled with a series of tutors. Enjolras and Hadley jokingly called it _Bourgeois School_ since the only thing he really learned was how to behave in “respectable” society. Enjolras found the whole thing incredibly tedious.

Waving goodbye to Hadley, Enjolras quickly hurried into the mansion that he called home, closing the door to his bedroom behind him. He wondered what would be acceptable to wear out on the streets of Paris. He wanted to look cool, and not overly girly. He decided to wear the red scarf that Hadley had bought for him, some black pants, and his fluffiest shirt. He pulled the green coat that Brigitte had gotten for him over his attire. It was nearly dusk, and Enjolras decided to make his move.

Thankfully, both of Enjolras’s parents had retired for the evening, apparently exhausted from a long day of socializing, and the servants were all too busy cleaning up to pay any attention to Enjolras.

Sneaking through the front garden and out the gate, Enjolras felt an incredible elation upon reaching the open air. He’d seen this part of the city a thousand times, getting into their carriage to go shopping or when travelling to the country. The air was biting, since it was late January, and Enjolras pulled his coat tight around him as he began walking down his street towards the corner that Jacques had indicated.

It wasn’t long before the scenery became unfamiliar, and the street more crowded. As he turned onto the Rue Cujas, he quickly became overwhelmed by the many tall buildings, the crowd bustling by, and the loud sounds of people shouting to each other and carriages speeding down the road. He hurried so as not to get into anyone’s way, and struggled simultaneously to read the street signs, hoping that the Rue Saint-Jacques wasn’t too far away. He didn’t want to be late and have Jacques leave without him.

Suddenly, Enjolras heard a shout from behind him and without warning a man plowed into his side, knocking him over onto the sidewalk.

“Hey! Come back!” a voice yelled after the man, who, without sparing a glance for Enjolras, tore down a side alley, disappearing from view.

“What’s all the shouting about?” Enjolras turned to see a police officer approaching the man who’d yelled, looking entirely uninterested in the whole proceeding.

“Some good you are! That guy just made off with a loaf of bread!” the shop-owner yelled, totally exasperated.

“Bread, huh?” the police officer repeated, and a spark seemed to alight in his eyes. “Could it be Jean Valjean?” Without another word to the distraught shopkeeper, the police officer, ignoring Enjolras who was still lying fallen on the dirty sidewalk, ran down the alleyway after the thief.

Enjolras finally stood and brushed himself off, wondering why no one bothered to ask if he was okay. His new coat was covered in the dirt from the street and he suddenly felt very lost and afraid. Stumbling along down the road, hoping he would meet up with Jacques soon, he was entirely unprepared when a group of thugs seemed to appear out of nowhere, looking at him with crazed eyes, blocking his path.

“Excuse me,” Enjolras said, putting on his best authoritative voice. Unfortunately, Enjolras’s voice was particularly squeaky and didn’t sound menacing at all.

The group consisted of three rather intimidating looking teenagers, their faces thick with dirt and gaunt with hunger. One, who appeared to be the leader, pushed Enjolras into the nearest alley where they’d be out of view.

“Just give us your money and we won’t hurt you,” he said, and Enjolras noticed he held a knife in his hand, the blade glinting in the pale sunlight. The color draining from his face, Enjolras struggled to calm his racing heart and think of something he could do to get away. He shut his eyes furiously and was appalled to realize he was crying.

“Please, I don’t have any money,” Enjolras said, even though that wasn’t entirely true. He’d grabbed a few francs before leaving the house and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat.

“Doubt it,” another man said, with a harsh voice. “You’re clearly rich, strutting around with a silk scarf. Let’s just take that.”

The man with the knife did not hesitate before tearing the scarf from Enjolras, choking him in the process.

“Hey!” Enjolras shouted, tears flowing freely now as he struggled to catch his breath. “Give it back!”

Before Enjolras could say another word, he felt the cold blade of the knife against his throat.

“Stop shouting,” the man said threateningly.

Suddenly, the knife dropped to the ground as the man holding it was hit on the head by a magical flying rock. It took Enjolras a moment to register what had happened, until he saw the blood running in a trickle down the man’s face, and a large rock laying only a few feet away.

“What the fuck?” one of the men asked, looking around to see where the rock had flown from. Enjolras didn’t hesitate, he used their distraction to his advantage, tearing away and running down the alleyway, no longer concerned about his silk scarf.


	2. Chapter 2

At first Grantaire thought that he was some hunger-induced hallucination. Or perhaps a vision brought on from too much wine, too little sleep, and too little food. However, when he saw the angel walking down the street pushed to the ground by a random bread thief, he knew that this was no dream.

Grantaire didn’t mean to follow him, but the boy was beautiful and he’d never seen anything or anyone so lovely. So, it was for this reason that Grantaire saw the blonde attacked by an angry mob of teenagers, and was able to throw a few well-aimed rocks at them from a nearby rooftop. He was busy making his own escape, since the men were likely to put together where exactly the rocks had come from and subsequently be incredibly angry, and therefore missed the direction in which the boy had run off.

When he reached the alleyway, which was now deserted, he quickly found the scarf that had been dropped in the tussle. It was torn and dirty, but Grantaire held it close and treasured it because it belonged to the angel he’d seen and if he ever saw him again, he could present him the scarf and maybe even talk to him. Walking down the alleyway, Grantaire contemplated how he was going to eat tonight. For some reason or another, the security in the city had been stepped up, and Grantaire knew several people who’d gotten arrested for something as simple as stealing bread. Begging for money was always difficult, since Grantaire was dirty and ugly and totally unable to inspire sympathy in anyone.

His thoughts were interrupted as he turned the corner into a dead end and saw the beautiful boy from earlier. He was hunched over in the fetal position, crying softly into his coat. His hair had come undone from the ribbon it’d been tied up in, and hung in loose curls around his face. His head shot up as Grantaire approached and he immediately staggered to his feet, eyes wide with terror.

“Stay away from me,” he shouted, his high-pitched voice shaking.

Grantaire took a step back, realizing that, of course, he would appear frightening to someone like this. He wasn’t a stranger to scaring people away with his appearance.

“Sorry,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “I found your scarf.” He pulled the stained, frayed scarf from his pocket where he’d stowed it. He watched the boy’s eyes fill with tears as he inspected the state of it.

“I’m sorry it’s ruined,” Grantaire said quickly, wishing he could think of something to stop him from crying.

“I don’t want it,” he said, wiping his nose against the green sleeve of his coat. “Just leave me alone.”

Grantaire took a hesitant step closer and immediately regretted it as the boy flinched away, hitting into the wall behind him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Grantaire reassured, and his voice was practically a whisper.

“I’ll kill you if you try,” he responded, voice still shaking.

Grantaire couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s threat, since he looked about as harmless as a kitten. He took another step closer and held out the scarf.

“Don’t you want it? Maybe someone can fix it for you.” There was no doubt in Grantaire’s mind that this boy was rich. For one, he owned a silk scarf. Secondly, he had no idea what he was doing on the streets, and clearly didn’t come from the slums.

“I guess,” he said, snatching it from Grantaire’s hands. Grantaire didn’t miss the slight brush of their fingers and felt as though he’d been electrocuted. “I just got it today. It was a birthday present.”

“Happy birthday,” Grantaire said, trying his best at a reassuring smile. His heart practically exploded with joy when he received a tentative smile in return. “My name’s Grantaire.”

“Enjolras,” the boy responded, staring down at the ruined red scarf in his hands.

Grantaire thought that Enjolras was the loveliest name he’d ever heard.

“If you want, I can take you home,” Grantaire offered. He was certain that Enjolras would like nothing more than to be back in the safety of whatever mansion he had come from. Grantaire briefly contemplated how much money Enjolras had on him at this very moment. Probably enough to buy bread for a month, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to take it from him.

“No,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “I can’t go home. I snuck out to explore Paris, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Why do you want to explore Paris?” Grantaire asked, honestly curious. He’d grown up in Paris all of his life, but hardly remembered the childhood he’d had before being thrust onto the streets. He remembered his mother, vaguely. She had tried her hardest to support their family, but, in the end, it hadn’t been enough, and the birth of Grantaire’s younger sister had been too much financial strain. Grantaire, not wishing to be a burden, feigned having gotten a job at some live-in situation, leaving home forever. That had been two years ago, though it felt like a lifetime. Living homeless on the streets was far more emotionally and physically draining than Grantaire had ever dreamed. He had grown accustomed to the familiar ache of hunger, the fear of being caught by police when stealing some food or pick-pocketing, the shame and desperation of begging for food, only to be violently shoved away by people who thought you were no better than the dirt beneath their feet.

“Because Paris is an amazing city, full of interesting people,” Enjolras said, pulling Grantaire from his thoughts. Enjolras no longer looked about to bolt, which Grantaire considered a victory. His eyes lit up when talking about Paris, this city that Grantaire had only ever regarded with scorn. He quickly scrapped any idea of robbing him. Enjolras practically exuded innocence, and Grantaire would die before tainting that.

“I could show you around,” Grantaire offered, still speaking quietly as though any sudden noise might frighten Enjolras away. He doubted that Enjolras would want to spend the rest of the day with someone like him, but figured it was worth a shot. He was afraid to let Enjolras wander anywhere on his own – he drew far too much attention to himself looking the cross between an angel and Apollo incarnate.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asked, looking up at Grantaire with the biggest, brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. “I won’t be a burden? I was supposed to meet my friend Jacques, but I’m certain he’s already left to go to a party with his cool friends.”

Grantaire thought that Jacques sounded distinctly snobbish, but didn’t say so.

“You won’t be a burden,” Grantaire said, “I’m not doing anything.”

Although he knew he should be spending this time concerning himself with what he was going to eat to stay alive, and where he was going to sleep, he refused to pass up this chance to show Enjolras around and spend time with him. When Enjolras gave him a shy smile in response, Grantaire felt happier than ever before.

“Thank you, friend,” Enjolras said, and he hesitantly reached out and took Grantaire’s arm.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras smiled, looking up at the boy who’d saved him. He had a distinct smell of the gutter and general grubbiness about him which Enjolras tried his hardest to ignore. He didn’t want to be rude and wrinkle his nose at someone who was taking the time to show him around the city - especially when he was sure that, despite what Grantaire had said, he had better things to do, and probably cooler people to hang out with than Enjolras.

Grantaire was unlike anyone Enjolras had ever met. He was taller by only a few inches, and couldn’t be that much older – although his confidence walking around the city indicated otherwise. He wasn’t attractive by any means – his hair was a mess, in tangles, and clearly hadn’t been washed in weeks. It hung lifelessly around his face, which was blotchy and featured a too-large nose, and blue-green eyes that seemed to look in two different directions at once, dark circles encompassing them. His tattered clothes hung loosely on him, and Enjolras could feel the thinness of the arm he clutched onto like a life raft in this gigantic and endless sea of Paris.

“Where do you live?” Enjolras asked in a loud voice. He must have frightened Grantaire from some sort of reverie because he twitched slightly before looking down at the ground, still walking at a slow pace beside Enjolras. They were back on the main road now, the Rue Cujas, and were occasionally jostled by passerbys – businessmen rushing past, merchants shouting out the names and prices of products, and posh women covering their faces with parasols despite the sun no longer being up.

It took a moment for Enjolras to realize that Grantaire was blushing deeply, and that his question had clearly distressed him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly. He was so bad at making friends. His father had told him once that because he had such an obnoxious personality and looked like a ten-year-old girl, his only friends would be the peafowl that they kept in the yard to impress guests. “That was intrusive. You don’t have to tell me.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras then with such an expression of awe and reverence that Enjolras himself began to blush.

“I don’t live anywhere,” Grantaire said in a quiet, embarrassed voice.

“Jacques told me that there are a lot of people in Paris that live on the street,” Enjolras said, holding tighter onto Grantaire’s arm as they passed a particularly sketchy group of beggars. “You must be one of them.”

“I must be,” Grantaire agreed, and he looked uncertain, as though he expected Enjolras to no longer want to be his friend.

“Take me to your favorite place,” Enjolras said, and he looked at Grantaire with a reassuring glance, hoping to silently promise: _I’m not going anywhere._

“Okay,” Grantaire said, and he seemed to gain back a little confidence, leading Enjolras through the city’s winding streets before finally coming upon a large, expansive garden that seemed out-of-place and boundless in the middle of the populated city. Enjolras couldn’t believe his eyes – this garden was exactly like Jacques had described, like something out of a fairytale.

Enjolras smiled up at Grantaire and didn’t notice the powerful blush that spread across his face.

“It’s breath-taking,” Enjolras said, nearly whispering. “You come here often?”

Grantaire smiled and nodded his head, leading Enjolras down the dirt path that currently held a few couples, walking arm-in-arm much like Enjolras and Grantaire.

“Oh my goodness,” Enjolras exclaimed suddenly, breaking away from Grantaire to run over to a patch of wild purple flowers. He knelt down in the grass beside them, picking a few. Grantaire wasn’t exactly sure that was allowed, but didn’t want to stop whatever was happening before him.

“Irises are my absolute favorite flower, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, proceeding to pick a few and put them into his hair. “Did you know they’re the national flower of France?”

Grantaire had not known that.

“Their three leaves represent the values of France,” Enjolras went on, picking off a few petals and looking at Grantaire with incredible determination, “wisdom, faith, and chivalry. Hadley told me this. But I just think they’re pretty. Don’t you?”

Grantaire couldn’t even focus on the flowers – not when the most beautiful person in the entire world was sitting there, talking to him, putting purple petals into his hair. He expected his heart would give out at any moment.

Enjolras gathered a few more irises before standing up and approaching Grantaire, standing so close their noses were almost touching. Without warning, Enjolras lifted his hands and placed a few flowers into Grantaire’s unkempt hair.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Enjolras said, his cheeks bright pink. “You look pretty.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire said breathlessly, although he didn’t believe it. Disagreeing with Enjolras, however, was out of the question. With each passing moment he became more and more convinced that Enjolras was an angel. There’s no way anyone mortal could be so entirely perfect.

“Shall we?” Enjolras said, holding out his hand. Grantaire took it slowly, treasuring the feeling of Enjolras’s soft, warm hand in his own. It was dark out and the only light came from the few street lamps burning along the path. Enjolras was huddled close to Grantaire and seemed to be shivering despite his thick jacket. Grantaire was practically numb to cold at this point, but the night was particularly frigid and he hoped he wouldn’t catch a cold – that was the last thing he needed.

When they reached the end of the path and walked back onto the street, the city seemed even more alive. Although the sun was down, the night had just begun for the Parisians who were beginning to sit down at bars, or eat dinner with their friends and family. Grantaire tried not to stare at the food being set down at restaurant tables, hidden from his reach by gates and the over-zealous police force.

It was only when they passed a crêpe stand, featuring a rather colorful poster of a strawberry crêpe, that Enjolras realized he was, in fact, incredibly hungry.

“What is that?” Enjolras asked, pointing to the sign, having never seen a crêpe before. He judged by the picture that it would probably be deemed “unhealthy peasant food” by his parents.

“A crêpe,” Grantaire said. He’d never had one either, as bread was significantly cheaper and he never could find occasion to splurge. “It’s thin bread with cream and fruit inside.”

“And they have strawberry?” Enjolras asked, indicating the picture, eyes lighting up and voice becoming increasingly loud and squeaky.

“I guess so,” Grantaire said, smiling at Enjolras’s incredible enthusiasm.

“Let’s get some!” Enjolras said, approaching the stand with an air of elegance that Grantaire had only ever seen on rich ladies, the kind who would see him begging on the sidewalk and turn away as quickly as possible.

Grantaire walked behind Enjolras, feeling exceedingly out of place. Anyone who observed them probably assumed that Grantaire was about to knock Enjolras over the head and take his money. He tried to shrink into himself to appear less threatening, but it failed to make any difference.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” Enjolras said, calling the attention to him. The woman running the stand looked over at the small, high-pitched blonde and gave him a smile, before lifting her eyes and casting Grantaire a look that clearly said his type wasn’t welcome around here.

“I will take a strawberry crêpe. Extra strawberry, please,” Enjolras said, smiling as though buying a crêpe was the coolest moment of his life. He turned behind him and seemed surprised that Grantaire was a few steps away, rather than within arm’s reach. “Grantaire?”

“I’m okay,” Grantaire said, stepping closer to Enjolras. He was supposed to be looking after Enjolras and protecting him from the horrors of the city. Instead, Grantaire felt as though he were the one that needed protecting. He suddenly felt incredibly useless and self-conscious.

“You’re okay? You don’t want a crêpe? Why not?” Enjolras asked the questions with all the curiosity of a child, and suddenly seemed to realize what exactly was going on. “Grantaire! If you’re worried about money, please be assured that I am treating you as a thank you for showing me around and saving my life and my scarf.”

“You don’t need to—” Grantaire began, mumbling under his breath, but was interrupted when Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with the most intent, hopeful gaze.

“I insist,” he said. Grantaire knew that he would never be able to refuse Enjolras anything, and plus he was absurdly hungry and the crêpe stand smelled delicious.

“Okay,” he relented.

“What flavor?” Enjolras asked, all of his enthusiasm about crêpes returning.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire began, sneaking a glance up at the menu. “Chocolate?”

“Chocolate! Okay! Good choice, Grantaire!” Enjolras ordered Grantaire his crêpe and they waited off to the side as the woman prepared them, making sure to put extra strawberries on Enjolras’s.

Once finished, she handed them both of their crêpes and said, “three francs.”

Enjolras handed his crêpe to Grantaire before approaching the counter and taking out a handful of coins from his coat pocket. Grantaire practically spit out the bite he’d taken of his chocolate crêpe. Enjolras had an incredible amount of money, and Grantaire immediately became paranoid, glancing around to see if anyone thought that they could take advantage of the young boy who clearly didn’t realize what a franc was worth on the streets of Paris.

After handing over the appropriate coins, Enjolras returned to the sidewalk where Grantaire was sitting, taking his strawberry crêpe.

“This looks amazing,” Enjolras said, smiling. “How is yours?”

If Grantaire was being honest, the crêpe tasted like heaven, like the food equivalent of looking at Enjolras’s beautiful smile. He blushed and said, “it’s delicious.”

“I’m glad,” Enjolras said. Grantaire, of course, didn’t mention that he was used to eating stale or burnt bread, if anything at all.

Enjolras ate his crêpe with appropriate politeness, taking small bites and picking out the strawberries, eating them separately. For some reason, despite the care he was taking in eating, he still managed to get cream on his nose. Before he could stop himself, Grantaire reached over and brushed it off with his finger. Enjolras stared at Grantaire in surprise, his red lips parted slightly, crêpe forgotten in his hand.

“Excuse me,” Grantaire hurried to say, coming to his senses. He had probably just totally freaked Enjolras out – it was disgusting for someone like Grantaire to be touching him.

To his total shock, Enjolras let out a small giggle. He scrunched his face and wiped absently at his nose.

“No, excuse _me_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras said, picking out another strawberry from his crêpe. “Table etiquette is my worst subject at Bourgeois School.”

“What on earth is Bourgeois School?” Grantaire asked, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

“It’s what I call my homeschooling. My parents think I shouldn’t interact with commoners so I have some tutors who teach me useless things, like how to be a respectable citizen.”

“It’s useless to be respectable?”

“Of course it is, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, finishing his crêpe. “Look around you. People are stealing from each other and starving and suffering. Paris needs a change.”

Grantaire thought it was rather hypocritical for Enjolras to be lecturing him about the suffering of the Parisian peasants, but found Enjolras’s random burst of activism to be cute enough that it didn’t really matter. Enjolras, however, seemed to catch himself.

“I’m sorry, Grantaire. Of course you know all that. I didn’t mean to preach. I just– I wish I could help. My parents have all this money and if they donated even a little, maybe people wouldn’t have to steal from each other,” Enjolras finished. His voice had grown louder and he was flushed, as though the state of France’s poverty was about to give him a panic attack.

“You could make a change,” Grantaire said, reassuringly, finishing his own crêpe and crumbling up the wrapper. “If anyone could, it would be you.”

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “that’s kind of you to say, considering we’ve just met.”

He took Grantaire’s wrapper from him and threw it into the nearest garbage bin. “I should be heading home. Of course, I have no idea where I am…”

“I’ll take you back,” Grantaire said, feeling his stomach drop. He had gotten so used to Enjolras’s company, and they’d only been together a few hours. Already the night seemed colder and the people walking the streets more threatening. It was ridiculous. He’d lived on the street for years, there was no way he’d suddenly become inept just from meeting someone who’d brought a glimpse of happiness into his life.

“We’re on the Boulevard Saint-Michel right now,” Grantaire explained, “it’s sort of the main street of Paris. Over there is the university, Sorbonne.”

“Maybe I’ll go there one day,” Enjolras said, under his breath.

“Maybe,” Grantaire said, with a smile. “Where do you live?”

As Enjolras explained the location of his house in excruciating detail, Grantaire stared at him, trying his hardest to commit him to memory. The way his golden curls, still decorated with purple irises, seemed to glow like a halo in the light from the street lamps, the way his small hands flew around when giving an entirely unnecessary description on the layout of his house, the flush of his cheeks against the cold wind, his red lips…

“Does that sound familiar?”

Enjolras had apparently finished his rambling.

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “I know where that is.”

Without hesitation, Enjolras wrapped his arm around Grantaire’s and they walked like a couple down the dark streets of Paris, enjoying the warmth of each other’s company.

It was only when they reached the outer gate to Enjolras’s family’s mansion that Grantaire felt the full extent of his heart breaking. He would never see Enjolras again. This boy had come into his life and changed it forever, but they were from two different worlds, and this was the end. He struggled to breathe evenly and not make a scene. This was just another day for Enjolras and there was no reason it should be any different for Grantaire.

“Grantaire, thank you,” Enjolras said, and before Grantaire could even find the words, he was encompassed in the warmest, tightest hug of his life. Enjolras’s curls were in his face, and he could smell the rose petals that he’d surely bathed in that morning. He wrapped his arms cautiously around Enjolras’s small frame, closing his eyes and willing this moment to last forever.

“Please,” Grantaire began, but stopped when he realized he had no idea what he was going to ask for. Enjolras pulled away, but kept his arms around Grantaire, keeping him warm as the harsh winter winds whipped past them.

“Please, be safe,” he finished lamely. He wanted to ask Enjolras if there was any chance of seeing him again, but already knew the answer to that. Of course Enjolras would not want to see Grantaire again. He probably couldn’t wait for this night to end.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, in a serious tone that seemed strange mixed with his feminine voice. “This coat was given to me as a gift from my maid, Brigitte. Well, she’s my maid but she’s also one of my only friends.”

“It’s nice,” Grantaire admitted. “I love green.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “I don’t really like green, but since you like it, I guess you can have it.”

And just like that, Enjolras slipped out of the thick green coat and placed it with incredible grace over Grantaire’s shoulders.

“Perfect,” Enjolras said, smiling, trying not to flinch against the cold. “Green really is your color. Brings out your eyes.”

Grantaire knew his eyes were hideous but couldn’t focus on anything right now other than the fact that Enjolras had just given him a coat that not only smelled incredibly like him, but was also apparently the clothing equivalent of sitting beside a fire.

“I can’t take your coat—” Grantaire began, finally finding his voice.

“You’re not taking it,” Enjolras said, as though it was obvious. “You’re borrowing it. I need you to look after it, for reasons that I can’t disclose. Will you do that?”

Grantaire knew that Enjolras was full of shit and just didn’t want him to feel inadequate for taking charity from the rich, as though Grantaire’s entire life wasn’t marked by pathetic turns of begging.

“I’ll do that for you,” Grantaire said, smiling, the night no longer seeming so dark.

“Good. Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “And thank you so much for today. It really was the perfect birthday because of you.”

With another quick hug, Enjolras turned and opened his gate, walking down the long path to the mansion that was lit by a few candles in the window, shining like a safe haven over the cold, desolate streets of Paris.

Grantaire watched Enjolras disappear, and began his slow dissent back into the city, where he’d try to find somewhere warm, or at least out of the wind, to spend the night. It was only when he walked back onto the Boulevard Saint-Michel, sticking his frozen hands into the coat’s deep pockets, that he realized Enjolras had left behind at least twenty francs, probably on accident.

That night, Grantaire slept in the cheapest hotel he could find, cherishing the feel of a bed beneath him for the first time in months, Enjolras’s coat wrapped tight around him.


	4. Chapter 4

It was June of 1823, five months after Grantaire’s encounter with Enjolras, and the vivid memories of their time together hadn’t diminished at all. Grantaire was currently hunched over his newest painting, featuring a beautiful boy in a red scarf. He relished the feeling of the warm breeze against his face, and the serenity of the park where he had led Enjolras by the hand, where they’d walked around like young lovers on their first date. Grantaire hadn’t seen Enjolras again since that day, and didn’t expect to again. Still, he wondered if Enjolras ever thought about him.

In only five months time Grantaire saw his life improve drastically. He’d always had a passion for painting, and envied the people who were able to sell their art on the streets for a few coins. Tourists visiting Paris seemed to think there was something special about authentic French art, fresh from the streets of Paris’s poverty. Either way, Grantaire had spent the remaining twenty francs – what wasn’t used on food – to buy art supplies, and practice his drawing. He didn’t want to brag, but it did seem as though he had a natural affinity for it, and he found it a far more dignified way to survive than begging.

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and Grantaire gathered his supplies, figuring that if he hurried, he’d be able to set out a few drawings and see if he could lure in any costumers.

The walk back to the Boulevard Saint-Michel was quick, and everyone seemed far more pleasant now that the weather was warmer. June was always lovely in France, and Grantaire thought it might just be his favorite month.

Setting out a few drawings of famous French landmarks in front of him on the sidewalk, he waited for the occasional foreign couple to come over and observe, usually without looking him in the eye, and take a drawing while donating a few sous.

He was busy talking with a couple who seemed incredibly interested in a drawing he’d done of the Louvre, when he heard the crash of a carriage followed by angry shouting.

“You’re kidding me, oh my god,” an exasperated shop-owner yelled. Glancing up, it wasn’t difficult to put together what had happened. The carriage, pulled by two rather majestic white horses, had lost a wheel, which had subsequently crashed into a stand of apples.

“I swear to god, you better pay for these,” the shop-owner yelled as the driver of the carriage jumped down, appearing incredibly baffled at the state of things.

Grantaire looked back over to the couple, and asked if they were interested in taking anything. However, they were too preoccupied by the freak carriage accident to give any more thought to Grantaire.

A middle-aged man with perfectly combed blonde hair and a suit that probably cost more than the city of Paris itself, stepped out of the carriage, followed by a maid – a young woman with brown hair tied back into a bun.

“What happened?” the man asked, his deep voice carrying throughout the street.

“Lost a wheel,” the driver explained, stating the obvious.

“I can see that,” the man said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How long to fix it?”

The man, the driver, and the shop-owner continued their exasperated and angry dialogue, which Grantaire ignored. He was used to tuning out the noise of bickering aristocrats, and he really needed to focus on selling a few of his paintings. It was a nice day out today, sure, but on rainy days he was basically stuck, and he needed to be prepared for those.

Eventually the couple drew their attention back to Grantaire and decided that they did, in fact, want the picture of the Louvre. Grantaire thanked them and dropped his eyes back to the remaining four drawings.

“How much for that one?”

Grantaire felt his heart stop in his chest. He would have recognized that voice anywhere. He looked up to see Enjolras, smiling down at him. He was wearing a light blue vest, the color of the sky (and the color of his eyes), and his curls were lit up by the sun, flowing freely around his face. Grantaire’s mouth dropped, and he silently chided himself for surely looking ridiculous.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, still shocked.

He was sitting down on the sidewalk and Enjolras knelt to join him. “They’re very good.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, his voice betraying just how astonished he was to be seeing Enjolras in person again. “What’re you doing here? Another escape?”

Enjolras laughed. “No. Our carriage lost a wheel.” He indicated the fallen carriage, the man, who must surely be Enjolras’s father, talking animatedly with the shop-owner, who was insisting he be compensated for the expense of his apples.

“Bad luck,” Grantaire muttered, blushing.

“Not so bad,” Enjolras said, and his eyes were sparkling in the sunlight. Grantaire was glad he was sitting down because his legs would have definitely just given out underneath him.

“I was hoping to see you again,” Enjolras began in his loud voice, somehow still managing to sound shy. “I don’t know if you thought about me at all—”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” Grantaire blurted out, realizing too late how creepy that sounded.

Enjolras, however, merely looked relieved.

“Oh,” he said, blinking his beautiful eyes. “You should come by my house tonight, I could sneak out again and we could—”

Enjolras was interrupted as a loud, booming voice carried across the boulevard.

“What the hell are you doing?” Enjolras’s head shot up and turned to his father, who looked absolutely livid to see him conversing with a peasant.

“Brigitte, get him,” his father continued, looking ready to punch someone in the face.

Brigitte hurried over, flustered.

“Enjolras, what’re you doing? Leave this boy alone,” Brigitte said, taking Enjolras by the hand and pulling him up.

“We’re friends,” Enjolras explained, his face flushing with embarrassment. Grantaire wanted to disappear into the ground.

Brigitte looked doubtful at the idea of Enjolras having any real friends, and dragged him unceremoniously over to the carriage, which was mercifully almost fixed. Enjolras noted with further anguish that his father’s shouting had attracted basically everyone’s attention.

Grantaire hesitantly looked over at Enjolras and caught his eye. Enjolras gave him a small smile before turning back to the crowd. Enjolras’s father did not bother lowering his voice as he lectured Enjolras on and on about how he shouldn’t talk to the “scum of the street” and how this was exactly why he would never amount to anything.

Grantaire watched Enjolras shrink into himself as his father’s words grew increasingly harsh and fought the urge to walk over there and tell everyone just how beautiful and amazing and inspiring and perfect Enjolras was. However, he knew such action would probably land him in a jail cell for the night, which wouldn’t do, as he had every intention of seeing Enjolras later.

After a few minutes, the driver announced the carriage fixed and Enjolras got in without another glance at Grantaire.

* * *

The rest of the day seemed to drag on forever, and it wasn’t until the sun had officially set and darkness descended on Paris, that Grantaire began his journey to Enjolras’s mansion. Even though he hadn’t been there since that perfect day five months ago, he remembered precisely where it was. Plus, it wasn’t exactly difficult to miss.

The night was clear and the moon was shining brightly in the sky, lighting up the night in a blue-white glow. Grantaire reached the locked gates of Enjolras’s mansion and peered inside. He wished they had more time to plan this out. Maybe Enjolras no longer wanted to meet with him. Maybe he was being held captive in his house after the escapades of the day.

“Grantaire!”

Grantaire squinted into the darkness, eyes finally focusing on Enjolras, who appeared out from behind a bush in the lavish front-yard garden.

What surprised Grantaire more than Enjolras appearing basically out of nowhere, was the fact that he was wearing a sundress. It was a warm night out, and Enjolras’s pale skin practically glowed in the moonlight.

“I had to hide because one of the servants was feeding the peacocks and I didn’t know when you’d come so I thought I had to be prepared, so I’ve been waiting in this bush for an hour,” Enjolras explained, hurrying to open the gate and let Grantaire in.

Grantaire couldn’t even find the words to speak, not when Enjolras was standing there in a dress, looking like a goddess.

“You look…lovely,” Grantaire finally managed.

Enjolras blushed and looked down at the dress.

“Thank you,” he said, taking Grantaire’s hand. “I think dresses are really pretty and cool but Hadley says I shouldn’t wear them outside the house because people will think it’s strange and make fun of me.”

“I don’t mind,” Grantaire reassured him.

“I didn’t think you would,” Enjolras said, with a smile. “Do you want to see the peacocks? They’re really friendly. One even laid an egg.”

“Okay,” Grantaire agreed, not entirely sure that he wanted to see a giant bird, but unable to say no when Enjolras seemed so enthusiastic.

Enjolras led him by the hand to the coop where the birds were kept.

“In there,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire leaned into the cage to get a look at one of the sleeping peacocks. It lifted its head and seemed to look at Enjolras and Grantaire with a distinct look of annoyance.

When Grantaire turned back, Enjolras held a large pinkish egg in his hand, which he unceremoniously placed into Grantaire’s palms.

“Look, an egg,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire was about to ask what exactly Enjolras wanted him to do with it, when it began to move in his hands.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire said, panicking.

“What?” Enjolras asked.

“It’s moving,” Grantaire explained, hoping to hand the egg back to Enjolras. Enjolras, however, looked slightly terrified at this development and took a step back.

“Well, do something!” Grantaire whispered, frantically, remembering that he should probably be quiet.

“I don’t know what to do!” Enjolras asked, his voice somehow reaching an even higher pitch. “Just hold it close!”

“Hold it close?” Grantaire asked incredulously. The egg was wobbling even more in his hands and, before his eyes, a small beak appeared, breaking the shell apart.

“Oh my goodness!” Enjolras exclaimed, now practically standing on top of Grantaire in his excitement to see the baby bird. Grantaire didn’t know which was more alarming – the bird hatching in his hands, or Enjolras’s body pressed against his.

“Grantaire, you’re amazing!” Enjolras said, his breath tickling the back of Grantaire’s neck. He felt himself break into a sweat. After a few more moments, the bird was completely free of the egg and looked up to Grantaire with an expression of love in its eyes. It let out a small peep.

“Oh my goodness,” Enjolras exclaimed again, “Grantaire, it probably thinks you’re its mother.”

Grantaire turned to Enjolras with raised eyebrows. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras said. “What’re you going to name it?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire said, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “Pierre? Pierre the Peacock?”

The bird chirped in response to Grantaire’s voice, causing Enjolras to giggle.

“He approves.”

“Great,” Grantaire said, not sure he was ready for the responsibility of parenting a peacock.

Enjolras smiled at Grantaire’s apparent uncertainty and led him back to the coop.

“Let’s put him with the other peacocks for now,” Enjolras said, taking the baby from Grantaire and setting it next to one of the adults. Pierre was immediately covered in feathers from the protective birds.

“I guess you’ll have to come by more often,” Enjolras said, amusement in his eyes, “to raise your baby.”

“Ha ha,” Grantaire said, hoping to keep his voice flat, although the sheer joy of the moment was overwhelming.

“The stars are really bright tonight,” Enjolras remarked, looking up at the sky. “Do you ever stargaze?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said. Stargazing was one of the few activities that had gotten him through those first lonely weeks living on the streets. He used to pretend the stars were angels, and that if he prayed hard enough, they would protect him and keep him safe and fed and alive. Grantaire looked at Enjolras, his face glowing pale in the starlight, and never believed in angels more.

“Come with me,” Enjolras said, taking Grantaire’s hand in his own and leading him deeper into the garden. Grantaire was careful not to walk on the sundress as it billowed in the wind. Finally they came upon a small clearing, surrounded by irises. Grantaire wondered if Enjolras had suggested they plant them because they were his favorite, or if they had become his favorite because they reminded him of home.

Enjolras sat down in the field, pulling Grantaire beside him. He lay on his back, looking up at the stars. Grantaire slowly lay down beside him, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He turned to look at Enjolras and noticed their faces were practically touching.

“I love watching the stars,” Enjolras said in a soft voice, “if you look close enough, you can connect them and make up stories. Do you ever do that?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, not wanting to admit that he used to believe the stars were angels that would take care of him. They were just gaseous balls of fire – Enjolras was real, and he’d never felt as safe as he did when they were together.

“Do you remember what you said to me when we first met?” Enjolras whispered, serious.

Grantaire frantically searched his mind for what he could have said that Enjolras would randomly be bringing up.

“What?” he asked, drawing a blank.

“You said that if anyone could make a change, it would be me,” Enjolras said, and he sat up suddenly. “I’m going to, Grantaire. I’m going to free France from slavery and tyranny.”

“I believe in you,” Grantaire said, unsure what to do. He wanted to ask why Enjolras cared so much about a problem that didn’t affect him in any way, but didn’t know how to do so without coming off offensively.

Enjolras turned to Grantaire and he looked immensely grateful.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, sounding solemn. “It feels like you’re the only one who does.”

“I always will,” Grantaire assured, thinking of the way Enjolras had saved his life just by being a part of it.

Enjolras smiled and, without hesitation, leaned over and gave Grantaire a quick kiss on the cheek. It was over before Grantaire could even register what had happened. Once he did, however, he immediately flushed a bright red. Glancing up, he noticed Enjolras was a similar shade.

“I’m so glad I met you,” Enjolras said.

“Enjolras—” Grantaire began, but was interrupted by a loud bustling coming from the bushes that surrounded their oasis, and a figure emerging from the brush. The moonlight made it possible for Grantaire to recognize Brigitte, the maid who’d been with Enjolras earlier that day.

Enjolras immediately stood up, brushing the dirt from his dress.

“Brigitte—” Enjolras began, eyes wide.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Brigitte said, though she didn’t sound angry, merely exhausted, probably thinking she didn’t get paid enough to deal with all of Enjolras’s antics. “Go back inside. This isn’t happening again. Do you know what would happen if your father found out?”

“I don’t care—”

“You should,” she interrupted, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation. “You should care a great deal.”

“My father is a bourgeois pig who doesn’t care about the poor, or anyone but himself and his reputation,” Enjolras shouted, all of his anxiety and frustration coming out.

“Enough,” Brigitte snapped, and she looked startled by Enjolras’s harsh tone. “You don’t mean that, and you’ll regret saying it. Whatever this is,” she indicated between Enjolras and Grantaire, “it’s a phase and you’ll grow out of it. Now come back inside and take a bath.”

Grantaire could tell that Enjolras was fuming, and wished he could reach over and comfort him in some way. He knew, however, that Brigitte was already incredibly distrustful of him even without him making a move on Enjolras. Her eyes would dart to him and then away, as though he were some sort of wild animal.

“I’m walking Grantaire to the gate,” Enjolras said, relenting. He grabbed Grantaire’s hand rather forcefully and dragged him through the shrubbery, ignoring the weary sigh of Brigitte.

“Enjolras, it’s okay,” Grantaire said, as Enjolras was clearly upset and looked moments away from either bursting into tears or lighting the gardens on fire. “I’m sure Brigitte is just looking out for you. She wants to protect you.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Enjolras said, squeezing Grantaire’s hand tightly. “I’m not a flower.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, thinking that Enjolras was, in fact, rather like a flower with his sundress and golden hair and big eyes.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras began. They had reached the gate and Enjolras turned to look Grantaire fully in the eyes, taking his other hand as well. “We’re going to make a change. We can do it. What do you think?”

“I think we can do it,” Grantaire agreed, although he wasn’t entirely sure how Enjolras proposed to smash the monarchy.

“You’re amazing,” Enjolras said, and he wrapped his arms around Grantaire. Grantaire was certain that he could survive solely off of hugs from Enjolras. And maybe more kisses on the cheek. He was blushing furiously by the time Enjolras pulled away, a look of determination on his face.

“I’ll see you again soon,” he whispered, giving Grantaire a small, sad smile.

Grantaire turned to leave, walking out the gate towards the dark city of Paris.

He wouldn’t see Enjolras again for ten years.


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps one of the most amazing things about life, and often the most tragic, is its ability to be completely unpredictable. Grantaire thought frequently about life, about its purpose, and seemed to more and more frequently draw the conclusion that it was utterly pointless.

Even as a young homeless child, Grantaire had an inclination for alcohol – the way it was able to numb the outside world, and create a warmness inside of him that he was unable to experience any other way. However, as the years went on and Grantaire struggled more and more to find anything worth living for, the appeal of the bottle grew stronger, until it was a constant in his daily life. He was twenty-two now, attending Sorbonne on an art scholarship, and totally unable to feel even a semblance of the passion he’d once had for drawing and painting. Grantaire didn’t know what was wrong with him, it seemed like he was stuck in a perpetual fog.

He tried his hardest to forget about Enjolras, the boy he’d met so long ago, who’d been an ephemeral ray of sunshine in his life. He didn’t want to think about a former happiness, or hope for it to return. He couldn’t handle any more disappointment.

He’d taken up residence in a rather dilapidated apartment on the Rue Soufflot, near a bar called the Café Musain. The bartenders and owner would swear that Grantaire actually lived there, as he was prone to coming early, skipping class, and staying until they were closed, usually passed out on a table in the back.

Grantaire was there now, drinking wine from a bottle that was already half-empty. He was lost in his thoughts, pondering the state of the universe and contemplating whether or not he had enough energy to finish his latest art assignment.

“Excuse me, you can’t hang that sign here,” he heard the owner’s voice say. Grantaire was facing the back of the café and didn’t bother turning around, used to the owner having to deal with obnoxious drunks.

“Why?” he heard a voice answer, not disguising his annoyance.

“Because this is a public establishment,” the owner responded. “What does it even say?”

“It says ‘Friends Gather Here.’ My friends and I are gathering here, and they need to know the place.”

“Just tell them the address!”

“But what if others want to join?”

“Join _what_?”

Grantaire turned around now to see what the commotion was about, and instantly recognized Enjolras. His breath caught at the sight of him. Enjolras was older now, his curls pulled back in a loose ponytail that hung over his shoulder. He wore a bright red coat and pants that, Grantaire couldn’t help but notice, were rather tight. His eyebrows were raised and he looked annoyed, but otherwise his face was exactly the same. Same bright blue eyes, same glowing cheeks, same innocence. He held a wooden sign in his hands, and was tapping his foot with impatience. His voice had gotten deeper since childhood, though still sounded slightly pre-pubescent. Grantaire noted that he could still easily pass for a girl.

“Listen, I trust you to keep our secret,” Enjolras said, although his voice was loud enough that, if the bar held anyone besides Grantaire, they would have been privy to the secret. “I’m holding a meeting here. We call ourselves the Friends of the ABC and we’re going to free France from the monarchy. I heard from a reliable source that you’re sympathetic to the cause. Is it true?”

“It is,” the owner said, seeming impressed by Enjolras’s passion. “Fine, you can hang the sign up. But only for the first week, and then take it down. I don’t need people asking questions.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, and proceeded to pull a hammer and nails out of his bag.

Grantaire sat there, stunned. He didn’t know what to do. There was no way Enjolras would remember him, it’d been forever, and he’d changed so much. Grantaire had never been an attractive person, but in recent years, alcoholism and insomnia and general depression hadn’t done him any favors. Enjolras would be disgusted to see what he’d become.

He would have to content himself with watching Enjolras from the back of the bar, from behind his bottle of wine. He saw Enjolras pull over a bar stool and stand on it, trying to get the sign as high as possible. It was obvious that he was clearly struggling, and after dropping the nails three times, Grantaire decided he would have to step in.

As he rose from his seat, he realized with numb dismay just how intoxicated he was. Struggling to walk a straight line to the front of the restaurant, he stopped a few feet away from the chair that Enjolras was currently standing on, struggling to make sure that the sign was even. It was overwhelming being so close to Enjolras – the living incarnation of Apollo, someone who Grantaire drunkenly tried to convince himself was made up entirely, just a hallucination brought on by his desperate mind to seek comfort in a cold world.

“Need some help, Apollo?” Grantaire called out, and winced when he heard how badly his words slurred.

Enjolras glanced down from his stool, raising an eyebrow. Grantaire wanted to run. There was absolutely no recognition in Enjolras’s eyes. It was obvious that Enjolras thought he was just some drunk come to harass him.

“It’s just…” Grantaire began, struggling to save this moment. To say anything that might make Enjolras look at him with anything other than repulsion. “It might be easier with two people.”

Enjolras seemed to consider the offer, and jumped down from the stool, pulling another one next to it.

“Fine,” Enjolras said, and he handed Grantaire the sign. “Hold it in place while I hammer.”

Standing up on the stool was easier said than done, and unfortunately his attempt at balancing made his intoxication painfully obvious. After nearly falling on his face, Enjolras snatched the sign out of his hands.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, sharply.

“Yes,” Grantaire admitted, knowing it was no use lying. “But I can still help. I frequently balance on stools when I’m wasted, and I’ve never fallen.”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, disbelieving. “Even though you almost just fell.”

“Almost,” Grantaire said, winking. It was worth it to see the exasperation on Enjolras’s face.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said quickly and turned away, about to return to his abandoned corner when Enjolras said suddenly, “wait.”

“Yes?” Grantaire asked, facing Enjolras once more. He couldn’t quite manage to meet his eyes.

“This may sound strange,” Enjolras said, “but have we met before?”

Grantaire felt his heart skip a beat. Before he could respond, Enjolras continued,

“Maybe we have a class together at Sorbonne?”

“No,” Grantaire said, wishing he hadn’t left his bottle of wine back at the table. “I’d remember you, Apollo.”

“Stop calling me that,” Enjolras said, and then reached into his bag to pull out a stack of papers. He handed one to Grantaire. It was a pamphlet that appeared to list all of the reasons that France needed another revolution. The memories of Enjolras speaking of change so fervidly as a child came rushing back. It sparked something in Grantaire’s heart to see that Enjolras hadn’t given up on his dream, that he hadn’t gotten distracted by drink or sadness. He was Grantaire’s exact opposite. And yet, he inspired in him something akin to hope. The feeling made him both uncomfortable and oddly delighted.

“Our group is meeting here tonight,” Enjolras explained. “We’ve just had to change our location, which is why I’m putting up this sign. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

“You probably will,” Grantaire said. “I’m here a lot.”

“Well maybe you’ll contribute something to our meeting,” Enjolras added. “My name is Enjolras, by the way.”

 _I know,_ Grantaire wanted to say. But he simply smiled, and folded up the pamphlet into his pocket.

“Grantaire,” he introduced. He didn’t wait to see if Enjolras recognized his name before retreating into his corner. After all, it didn’t really matter. They were hardly even the same people.

He finished the rest of his bottle and when he turned around, Enjolras was gone and the sign was hanging above the Musain, slightly off-kilter.

The Friends of the ABC came to hold their meeting only a few hours later, crowding around the table that Grantaire inhabited, asking him questions about his studies and where he was from and if he believed in the cause. It was the first time in his life that he’d had so many friends, and he wondered if Enjolras felt the same. He noticed that Enjolras’s eyes sparkled whenever someone – Courfeyrac or Combeferre, Grantaire would eventually learn their names – came over to ask him a question, or talk to him about a rally or protest. And if Enjolras ever happened to look his way, with that spark of hope shining bright in his eyes, he would drink and mock and drop his gaze, afraid to see recognition, or worse, a lack of anything at all. 


End file.
